


The One Where Gene Gets a Kitten

by Gracefully



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cats, Fluff, Gen, Kittens, M/M, Post-War, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5988775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracefully/pseuds/Gracefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene misses Babe enough to get a kitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Gene Gets a Kitten

**Author's Note:**

> i am trash and kittens are cute and so are babe and gene

Gene misses Babe enough to get a kitten. It’s red (like Babe), soft (like Babe), loud (like Babe), and whines when it wants food (again, like Babe). Gene is pretty sure he’s allergic to it, the way his eyes keep watering and he keeps sneezing all the damn time, but the thing is too cute to get rid of. He got it on the way home from work, dirt on his hands and shirt. The attractive young woman behind the counter eyed Gene as he asked to see the kittens, but sure enough, twenty minutes and two dollars later, it’s riding home on Gene’s lap in the cab of the truck. 

It doesn’t settle for some time, peering out the window and trying to climb up the front of Gene’s shirt as he drives. It’s terribly distracting, but it brings a smile to Gene’s face, and he decides that he likes it. When they get home, Gene’s rough hands, stained and calloused, carry the thing inside. It trots around, following Gene as he does his afternoon and evening chores. It sits in his lap as he eats dinner, and even though Gene promised himself he wouldn’t spoil it, he still feeds it bits of chicken off of his plate. 

After that, of course, it won't eat the pet food that Gene sets out for it. No, the small orange cat takes only from Gene's palm, whether it be chicken or pasta. The first night, Gene folds up a towel by the heater and gently places the kitten on it. The kitten mewls pitifully as soon as Gene lets go, and Gene cautiously pets its head. 

The kitten purrs then, deep in its tiny throat. It presses its face into Gene's palm, green eyes shutting in happiness, and Gene feels his heart swell almost painfully. He tries to leave it on the towel by the heater, he really does. But the thing follows him into his room, and then when it can't jump high enough to get onto the bed, it starts making the saddest noises Gene has ever heard a kitten make. 

So, because Gene is never one to keep any living being in pain, he reaches down and scoops the kitten up into his hand, placing it gently on the other side of the bed, where Gene would be hard pressed to accidentally knock it off in his sleep. 

The kitten, of course, wearily trods over to Gene and plops down in the center of his chest. Gene protests because he swears he can feel his eyes swelling and his nose congesting as he lays there, but he obliges because now the kitten is asleep, and it's whiskers hit Gene's chin with every breath,  and Gene can feel his heart swelling with a fondness he feels is downright nostalgic of who he got the kitten because of in the first place. 

He carefully lays a hand on top of the kitten, careful not to crush it, and drifts off into deep sleep. 

 

Gene's job in construction requires him to wake up at five am, which is all too early by Gene's standards. The weak sunlight through the trees of the Bayou is a thousand times better than the cold sunlight over Bastogne's icy forests, if there even was any sun. The most that place ever got was an odd sort of twilight, the kind that made it easy to lose your way and walk right into German lines. 

No, this sunlight, though it's humid and often a burden when trying to build houses, is incredibly welcome after the war. Gene just wishes he could experience it a little later. The kitten, however, is full of buoyant energy. It weaves through Gene's legs, making Gene step carefully so as to avoid it. It peers up at Gene and Gene sends it a soft smile. It sits on his lap and takes small bits of cooled oatmeal from Gene's lap. 

During breakfast, Gene decides that it should probably get a name. A quick look under the tail confirms that the kitten is a he, so that narrows down some of the possible names. Gene remembers that he got the kitten on a Wednesday. "Mercredi," Gene says aloud. The kitten purrs and settles deeper into Gene's lap.  

It hurts Gene to leave Mercredi alone and locked up in his apartment all day while he's at work. He doesn't know anyone who doesn't work for the same construction company who would also be willing to come check on his kitten. He leaves out newspapers on the floor in case it needs to pee, as it did earlier, and he leaves out some leftover chicken. He also places a saucer of milk on the floor, in case Mercredi gets thirsty. 

As Gene is hustling out the door, Mercredi trots after him, mewing, as if he's asking, "where are you going?" Gene stoops to pet it twice before he carefully slips out the door, a weight on his heart and conscience. As he walks to where his truck is parked at the curb, he can't help but think that now he misses twice the amount of redheads he should.   
  


Gene spends the day on edge, consumed by worry about Mercredi. He worries if Mercredi is eating, if he's okay, if he isn't too lonely. Gene works fervently to distract himself, but he still ends up staring off into space. At lunch, a coworker asks him if he's okay. Gene brushes him off with a small wave. 

The day can't seem to move fast enough. Gene feels like time is moving so slowly just to punish him, to make him enjoy his time with Mercredi more. It's incredibly effective. As soon as the clock hits five o'clock and the others start packing up, Gene practically runs to his truck and spends the drive home staying within the speed limit by a small margin. 

Gene runs up the stairs, full of energy and worry and excitement all at once. Of course, as soon as he gets to his door, he can't seem to get the key to fit, and then he hears Mercredi mewl from behind the door. Gene's heart stills. He scrambles with the lock, finally gets it open, and slips inside. Mercredi practically throws himself at Gene, in his hurry to be shown attention and to receive it. 

Gene slides down the back of the door so that he's sitting on the floor. He carefully picks Mercredi up, hugging him to his chest. Mercredi, meanwhile, purrs with a fervor that's impressive, considering his tiny body. He tucks his head under Gene's chin, kneading Gene's chest with his tiny, razor-sharp claws. Gene winces, but he pets Mercredi anyway, and takes a look around the immediate surroundings. 

The food is mostly gone, which pleased Gene. There's a bit of water spilled around the bowl. The newspaper looks damp, but Gene can't be sure without looking. Mercredi appears to be fine and healthy and not hurt. Relief courses through Gene's body like a drug. He leans his head back, closing his eyes and just holding his tiny orange kitten close to his chest.   
  


Later that evening, after dinner, Mercredi crashes after Gene spends a good half hour dragging a feather across the ground and watching Mercredi run and bat at it and try to catch the feather. Playing with Mercredi startles a laugh out of Gene, and he realizes somewhat belatedly that he can't remember the last time he laughed. He notices Mercredi's eyes slipping closed as he sits there. With a fond smile, Gene places Mercredi onto his bed, and goes to sit at the desk. 

A blank piece of paper stares at him accusingly. Gene picks up his only pen.  _ Dear Edward _ , he writes cautiously. The words glare back at him. Gene crumples the paper without thinking. Edward is too formal, too distant, too cold. Besides, Babe always hated people calling him by his real name. 

Heffron? Gene unfolds and flattens the piece of paper, writing  _ Dear Heffron _ , on the next line. He resists the urge to re-crumple the paper. Babe always hated anyone but his superiors calling him Heffron anyway. 

Gene taps his pen, thinking and then overthinking. Was starting the letter with dear too informal? Was starting it with Babe too informal? Was starting a letter _ Dear Babe _ and ending it  _ Sincerely Gene _ too informal for two war buddies who hadn't spoken or had any sort of contact for almost a year? 

The last time Gene had seen Babe was at the train station. The war was over and everyone was heading home. Gene's train was about to pull away. He hovered on the steps, turning back to look at Babe. Babe smiled and waved. They had already shaken hands and exchanged addresses. There was no more to be said. Then, Gene quickly ran down the steps and threw his arms around Babe's neck, pulling him close. Babe had reciprocated, his arms wrapped around Gene's ribcage. 

"Don't be a stranger, Gene." Babe said into Gene's ear. "Please don't." Gene nodded furiously, blinking back hot tears that threatened to spill out onto Babe's freshly pressed uniform. 

"Same goes for you, Babe," Gene said, pulling away. And because he knew if he didn't get onto the train, he never would, Gene turned and left Babe on the platform, before he could make any decisions he would later regret. Babe's shock of red hair, stark against his forest-green uniform, was the last thing Gene saw before his train rounded a corner and was on its way. 

Gene crumples the paper once more, with finality. He somehow can't stand to look at Babe's name. It makes him think of cold winter nights in Bastogne, huddled down into the same foxhole, sharing a blanket in a hole shaped exactly like a grave. Gene realizes his hands are shaking. He has good memories, great memories of Babe, but Bastogne took something out of him he's not sure he will ever get back. 

Mercredi is splayed on his back, belly open to the air. Gene rubs his stomach lightly. The only recognition Mercredi gives is a kneading of his front paws in the air, one paw after the other. His tiny toes splay every time he kneads, before he draws his paws back to his chest. Gene smiles fondly. And then sneezes. Several times. Because he's allergic to the damn cat, even though he's in denial about it.   
  


Often, Gene’s favorite part of the day is when he has just woken up from a nice dream and is in the soft, hazy gray area in between dream and reality where he can swear he feels Babe’s arms around him and his breath on Gene’s neck. Then, inevitably, Gene wakes up fully, and his bed is empty aside from Mercredi. The kitten helps Gene’s loneliness an awful lot, but sometimes it’s painful, how much Gene misses Babe. 

The next day is Saturday, which Gene has off from work. Gene is always grateful for Saturdays, as a job in construction often has him bruised and scraped and aching for a bath. Saturday is a reprieve from the day to day labor and subsequent body aches. Saturday is also the day for Gene to run errands. He leaves Mercredi with a small plate of leftover chicken, cut to tiny, kitten-bite sized pieces. Then, he hops into his truck and heads to the pet store. 

The same woman that sold him Mercredi is behind the counter. She seems to recognize Gene, and asks how his kitten is doing. She asks with an air of dread, as if Gene's managed to kill him and is back to get a new one. Gene feels a smile break loose on his face as he tells her how well Mercredi is doing. He browses the aisles, finally settling on a tin of catnip and a stuffed mouse. 

Normally, Gene would never think to buy such things for a cat, but his job is stable and Mercredi is special. To him, the cost is nowhere near as valuable as Mercredi's happiness. He would have never thought that he would care about a cat as much as he cared about Mercredi, and after only a couple days. 

Gene leaves the store with a slight smile and more bags than he intended to leave with. The woman behind the counter had sent him a wary smile on his way out. Gene takes this as a sign of assurance in his pet-keeping skills. 

When he gets home, Mercredi practically throws himself at Gene. He's purring and rubbing his forehead against Gene's chin, his tiny claws kneading at Gene's hands. Gene clutches him in one hand, carefully setting his bags down on the kitchen table. He continues to hold Mercredi in this fashion, close to his chest, as he puts away the groceries. Gene can feel his eyes swelling and his nose congesting, but he could care less. Mercredi’s contented purrs are well worth it.   
  


Later that night, Gene figures he’ll need a finger of whiskey (even though he’s never been a drinker, even in a celebratory way), and a lot more courage than he has in order to finally write that letter to Babe. The paper stares him down, almost invitingly. His pen feels awkward in his hand. The tiny glass of whiskey next to Gene feels silly. None of it feels right, but then Gene looks to Mercredi, asleep on his bed, and he remembers the redhead that prompted him to get Mercredi. 

Gene grips the pen.  _ Babe,  _ he writes. And then he keeps writing. Just like that. The letter is short, but Gene’s never been one for many words, so he’s content at keeping it under ten sentences. Halfway through, he downs the whiskey with a grimace, shaking his head against the urge to spit it out. Mercredi blinks sleepily as Gene coughs against the burn. 

_ Babe,  _

_ I miss you. The bayou’s a little lonely without you. I’ve been thinking back to the war, back to E Co. I miss the men, but I especially miss you. Come for a visit?  _

_ Gene _

_ P.S. Hope you aren’t allergic to cats _

Then, Gene collapses in his bed and tries not to think about Babe’s bright red hair and his sparkling eyes. Somehow, it doesn’t really work, and Gene longs for Babe’s hands in his hair and his body beside Gene’s.   
  


In the morning, Gene puts the letter in an envelope, slaps a stamp on it, addresses it, and puts it in the mailbox before he can really think about what he’s doing, before he can second-guess himself. He scrawls the phone number of his building and his extension on the back, in case Babe needs to call him. 

He then heads back inside and tries desperately not to get his hopes up. It doesn’t really work.   
  


Babe mails back a week later. When Gene sleepily shuffles out to get the mail, his heart nearly stops when he sees a battered letter, adorned with Babe’s unmistakable handwriting. Gene tears back upstairs, slamming the door behind him. His heart pounding, the letter clutched to his chest, Gene tries to get his breathing under control, lest any embarrassing noises of excitement escape him. 

Suddenly, doubt pollutes his mind. What if it’s Babe telling Gene that he never wants to see Gene again? What if he’s writing to say one last goodbye, telling Gene that the train station was a goodbye for good, why couldn’t Gene get the message? And suddenly Gene can’t stand to look at the letter. He tosses it onto the armchair, collapsing onto the couch. The quick rise and fall of emotion was almost overwhelming. 

He sits, staring at the damned letter, possibilities whirling through his head. He thinks he could stare at it forever without opening it, but then Mercredi hops up and begins gnawing it out of curiosity, and Gene is forced to snatch it out of the adolescent kitten’s jaws before it’s destroyed. 

Then, Gene stares at the envelope. The stamp depicts a Naval officer, some fallen hero from the Pacific. Gene doesn’t know who he is. He retrieves a letter opener from his desk and methodically slices the letter open. Mercredi settles in his lap, pillowing his head into Gene’s stomach. 

Gene, with shaking fingers reminiscent of Bastogne, carefully pulls out the letter.  _ Gene,  _ he reads and has to stop because it’s almost too much, because it’s Babe’s handwriting and if Gene concentrates he swears he can smell Babe on the paper. His eyes slip closed for a moment as he focuses on breathing and steadying his hands. 

_ Gene, _

_ Philly’s my home, but I’ll admit, it’s a little lonely without you here. I’m taking three days off of work, the 22nd-25th. I’ll be there.  _

_ Babe _

_ P.S. I love cats _

And Gene. Can’t. Breathe. Because it’s Babe’s handwriting and Babe’s voice is in Gene’s head and it’s all a little too much because Babe is coming, Babe is coming to see Gene and Gene can barely even believe it. Gene reads the letter again, he rereads it, as a smile breaks out over his face. Gene leans back into the couch, relieved and happy beyond belief. Mercredi purrs contentedly and Gene echoes his sentiment, running a hand through Mercredi’s red fur.   
  


But then time can’t move fast enough, and Mercredi seems to be getting bigger every day and Gene cleans like a madman, going over every inch of his apartment and trying to make it look as presentable as possible. He gets the days off he needs from his work, and before he knows it it’s the twenty second and Mercredi huffs irritably as Gene moves him for the third time because the apartment could look better, dammit, but then there’s a knock at the door. 

Gene stills. He’s pretty sure his heart stills as well. He forces himself not to run, but it’s so hard. There’s another knock and Gene is at the door. He opens it, heart in his throat, and there he is. Gene is pretty sure the air’s been knocked from his chest because Babe is there, and he’s  _ smiling  _ and he has his army duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his suit is well-pressed and he’s there because of Gene. 

All at once, Gene rushes forward and yanks Babe into a tight hug. Babe laughs, a little surprised, but then reciprocates, his arms around Gene’s ribs, nearly crushing him. Gene presses his face into the space between Babe’s neck and his shoulder and inhales and all he can smell is Babe, and that’s more intoxicating than any drug. 

Eventually, they have to separate, but they only separate enough to properly look at each other. Babe’s eye flick all over Gene’s face. He smiles. “You look good, Gene.” 

“You do too,” Gene can barely choke out. Good is an understatement. 

They head inside and Babe sets his bag down and then Gene thinks he must have really gone off the deep end because he turns and takes Babe’s head in his hands and presses their mouths together, real gently. He pulls away quickly, not wanting to scare Babe off. He’s scared as it is that he’s ruined the best relationship he’s ever had. 

Babe’s staring at him with wide eyes, but then he suddenly surges forward and pins Gene up against the wall, smashing their mouths together almost furiously. He pulls away enough to breathe, “Is this what you really want?” 

Gene almost moans, “Yes.” He swallows. “You. All of you.” 

Babe looks hopeful. “Well, I want you.” They kiss again, both hopeful and incredulous that they were actually kissing and together once again. 

After an hour or two of kissing on the bed like teenagers, they pulled apart, content to keep things where they were. They lay next to each other, fingers twined. Mercredi jumps up, landing heavily on Babe’s chest. “And who are you?” Babe asks, scratching behind Mercredi’s ear. 

“This is Mercredi.” Gene says, running his free hand down Mercredi’s spine. At Babe’s questioning look, he adds, “Wednesday in French.” 

“Well, Mercredi,” Babe says, “I think we can learn to share Gene. I think we are going to be good friends.”

 

-fin-

 

**Author's Note:**

> what's an ending?


End file.
